Someday Home

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M
om, I think you should sell this house, this place, make life easier for yourself.”

Marlynn Lundberg, simply Lynn to those around her, stared at her elder son, Phillip. He looked so much like his father sometimes she had to jerk herself back to reality. Well, like his father twenty years ago and less one slight paunch that had crept on over the years. “Why would I do that?”

“Well, with Dad gone and money tight as it is, if you sold this you'd have some money to invest and provide for yourself. We could build you a smaller place next to our house. We have plenty enough land to subdivide, you know, like you and Dad talked about doing someday.”

“Wait. What do you mean, ‘next to'? The only thing separating your house and this one is a cow pasture, and it's less than ten acres.”

“Well, yeah. Tom and I were talking about it; we're thinking right beside. And we could build a breezeway between them. Then you and the kids could visit without going out in the weather.” He scrubbed his chin with two fingers, another trait of Paul's.

Paul, who had gone to work on plumbing a new house for a change, not just repairing older plumbing, which was most of their bread and butter. And dropped dead before noon. Just keeled over; the doc said an aneurysm blew. They'd never known he'd even had an aneurysm. He'd been the picture of a healthy, robust man who loved his family, his Lord, and his work, the order depending on the day. Paul, whom she had loved since she was sixteen in high school and he returned on leave from his four-year stint in the army. He'd been a good friend of her older brother Swen, so not a stranger, but four years' difference was a big one when you were sixteen and your father said you could not date anyone in the military.

The thought of selling the place made her teeth gnash and grind. But she did the books for both personal and the plumbing business. Between Phillip, the eldest, and Tom, the middle child, the business was outwardly successful, but supporting three families took a lot of pipes and toilets and sinks. Just like it always had.

Lynn wagged her head. “There must be some other way.”

“I sure hope so, but I think we need to be realistic here.” Arms crossed over his chest, butt against the island countertop, and his third cup of coffee in one hand, he studied his mother.

Lynn hated to be studied by anyone but especially by one of her kids, of which there were three, all adults, and two of which had already provided grandchildren. Paul totally believed the old adage,
Had I known grandchildren would be so much fun, I'da had them first
. Paul and Lynn had been good grandparents. They'd been good parents, too, thank the good Lord, one of Paul's favorite sayings.

Their mostly perfect life ended the day he dropped dead.

“Mom, you're woolgathering again. You aware how much you do that?” Phillip took a sip of his coffee, made a face, dumped the remainder in the sink, and refilled from the carafe that kept coffee hot.

Maybe yes, maybe no, her awareness, that is. At times grief did strange things to one's mental stability. “I do know one thing for sure—well, other than God is in His heaven and…” She had to stop. She used to finish that line with “and all is right with the world.” But that wasn't so true any longer or at least those times that missing Paul broadsided her like an eighteen-wheeler. In a skid. On ice.

She sucked in a breath and blew it out, rounding her cheeks to make it blow better, a trick she had learned through the grieving. Her shoulders dropped but at least her legs kept sturdy. She swallowed and started again. “Your dad and I promised each other we would keep this place for our kids and our grandkids. No matter what happens in this messed-up world, you would all always have a place to come back to, a place that could at least provide food and haven no matter what else was going on.”

She watched him sigh and wag his head. “Phillip, we are not in arrears on anything; there is money in the bank, albeit not a great deal; the business, while not growing like we'd appreciate, is still keeping us all busy; we are healthy, and I don't ever want to have this discussion again. Not with you, not with your brother.” She kept her voice even, in spite of the trembling that seized her mind and body. She did not leap across the counter and shake him until his teeth rattled or bang her head against one of the log walls. Or run screaming down to the dock and throw herself in the calm waters of Lake Barnett. Had any of those things worked or she became seriously demented, the latter of which was the most possible, she might have given them a try. Especially in the dark nights when the empty bed, the empty closet, or her empty arms overwhelmed her.

Those nights when God seemed an impossible dream, and alone was the only sound she heard.

She asked, “Does Travis have baseball today?” She loved the way Phillip's older son took everything so earnestly.

“No, but he and Davey are playing catch in the backyard, practicing.” Phillip shrugged and set his coffee mug in the sink. “You realize, if you lived right next door over there, you'd already know that. I'll tell Tom we're not selling the heavy equipment after all.” The grin he sent her over his shoulder made her pick up a dish towel and throw it at him.

She missed Phillip, who ducked aside and left, but almost got Miss Minerva, who was just padding into the kitchen. The cinnamon tiger with fluffy fur leaped up onto the counter and stared at her.

“Sorry, Minerva. I didn't mean you.” She stroked Minerva from ears to tail a couple times, currying forgiveness. Tom and Phillip seemed to be in agreement. What about their little sister, Lillian, who seemed to love her career—teaching—that she had embarked on just before her father died? Lillian, the apple of her father's eye. And Lynn's. And now her father would not be there to walk his daughter down the aisle, if and when she got around to marrying.

Stop it! Just stop it!
Lynn slammed her coffee cup on the counter. The cup shattered, coffee with cream flew up and out, raining on counters, sink, cupboards, the floor, and the front of her white T-shirt. Her new white T-shirt with the
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GRANDMA
and their signatures on the front. The one given to her by her grandkids, who had painted the front with their handprints in various bright colors of paint. And now coffee spotted.

Tears not only rained down her cheeks, but also spurted from her eyes like a spring in full spate. Sobs drove her into the laundry room, where she pulled the shirt over her head, sprayed it with stain remover, and ran cold water into the machine to let it soak. “Please, Lord, don't let my shirt be ruined. Please! Please!” She slammed the lid of the machine and sank down on the bench in the combination laundry and mudroom, where everyone sat to pull off their boots before tramping on her kitchen floor. Collapsing forward, she hugged her knees, the sobs ripping her apart.

A cold, wet nose and a warm tongue took care of her ear, her neck, and bare shoulder since she cowered in her bra and jeans.
Stop this, you old fool.
Calling herself names did nothing to stem the onslaught. One would think in the year of many tears she'd have learned she could not stop it with cruel words to herself or anyone else, God included. The only way was through.

Orson, the rapidly aging yellow Lab who had been Paul's hunting dog and constant companion, had grieved right along with her. But in his doggy wisdom, he had accepted the inevitable and sort of switched his allegiance to Lynn. She thought she had accepted the inevitable as well, until some little thing happened, usually something stupid, and she melted into a puddle of pity. Self-pity—the disgusting kind.

One year. One year and nine months ago. She should be over this by now. The shaking abated, but instantly, she was drenching wet and not from the tears. With nothing left but her bra, she should be shivering. But no—she was on fire. What was wrong now? Instinctively she started toward her favorite chair in front of the wall of windows overlooking the lake, but then sat back down on the floor. Out on the deck was cooler. She got up again and went out there.

In your bra?
This time her mind screamed at her. Good heavens, who cared? Well, anyone boating or canoeing by on the lake, anyone who came around to the deck or the front door on the south side of the house. Wrapping her arms around the gray-muzzled, arthritic dog, she dried another wave of tears on his soft ears and let him lick whatever he felt needed fixing. But cold April showers hit about as fast as her own drenching. She went back inside to the mudroom.

A knock at the door ten feet from her and “Mom?” announced her daughter-in-law Margaret Marie, trained nurse and mother of three of her grandchildren. Lynn grabbed for any shirt that peopled the line of wooden pegs on the wall, above the cubbyholes for boots, garden shoes, and whatever, that had been a godsend when they put them in. All three of the children had given up and kept boots and schoolbooks in the assigned cubbies. She crammed her arms into the sleeves of a denim shirt and with her back to the door, buttoning as Maggie closed the door behind her.

“You're crying.”

“How do you know?” One button refused to slide into the hole. The urge to rip the entire shirt off and fling it against the wall made her sniff.

“The ceiling is raining?”

Lynn left the button at her chest undone and, finger combing the sides of her hair back so they were no longer tear glued to her cheeks, shrugged. “You are too perceptive for your own good.” She cleared her throat and felt a tender hand on her shoulder. “Please don't do that.” The tears blinded her again.

“That bad, eh?” The hand left and two arms came around her and gathered her close to a tall, slim shoulder that had absorbed tears before. She just held Lynn and let her cry, then pulled a tissue from a box on top of the cubbies. Lynn had learned to keep tissues everywhere. “Here. How about a cup of tea?”

“The kitchen is a mess.”

“Your kitchen is never a mess.”

“Then you better grab a broom and a mop, because that stupid mug shattered instead of just breaking the handle.”

“I see. Mug of what?”

“Coffee with cream. And if it permanently stains my new T-shirt…” She sniffed and blew her nose again.

“We'll make you a new one, Mom, no big deal.” They moved into the kitchen and Maggie burst into laughter that bounced around the pine cabinets and off the tongue-and-groove pine ceiling. Miss Minerva was up on the counter, daintily licking at the spilled coffee. At least she was nowhere near broken crockery.

“Shoo!” Maggie tipped Minerva off the counter and the cat darted away. “You weren't kidding, Mom. What set this off?”

Lynn grabbed the broom. “Let me get the glass swept up before we grind it into the floor.”

“I reiterate, what happened?”

“Nothing, at least nothing big or worthy of the onslaught, but…”

“But…?” Nearly as tall as Phillip at six feet, Maggie leaned her rear against the counter and watched Lynn sweep. Finding the dustpan, she looked into the sink. “I'll get the glass out of there before we mop.” She grabbed several paper towels off the roll hanging under the cabinet, and after picking up the bigger pieces, she used the wet towels to catch the smaller shards. “There's some on the counter, too.”

Between them, they cleaned up the mess. “Good thing Orson didn't come over here.”

“I know. But he was out on the deck and came through his doggy door when he heard me crying.” Lynn stood back and studied the floor against the light to see if anything glittered. “There's coffee in the carafe.”

“Tea sounds better.” Maggie filled the royal-blue teakettle and set it on the gas stove. With the burner lit, she fetched the china teapot from the cupboard and two teacups with saucers. “Today you need some extra beauty in your life.” She smiled at the two dainty teacups, one with lavender pansies, the other with violets. “I'm so glad you have kept these out to use instead of sticking them in the china cabinet like Grandma did.”

“She was keeping them for a special occasion.”

“So, what made an occasion special enough? A visit from the Queen of England?”

“No, Norway.”

When the two sat down to tea, cleaning out the cookie jar of ginger and molasses cookies, Maggie watched her good friend, let alone relative, closely.

Lynn poured the orange and spice tea into the cups and set the pot down. “You're giving me the nurse look.”

“I know. I think it's time you went and saw Dr. Eleanor. You are right, you're not yourself.”

“I have too much to do to be sick.”

“Or ailing at all. Your life has been turned upside down, you know.”

And sometimes I feel stomped right into the ground,
but how did one explain that to a doctor, who was more perceptive than many. She had switched to a female doctor several years earlier, after Dr. Gregson retired and she wasn't thrilled with the younger man who had bought the practice.

“Are you sleeping all right?”

“Most of the time.” But not the night before. Both nightmares and a wet bed, not an accident in the bed, but a sweaty body, woke her up. The two often seemed to go hand in hand. And she woke in the morning, dragging herself out of bed. Maybe that was why she was so weepy.

“So have the kids told you they're counting the weeks until school is out?”

The change of subject caught her by surprise. “Not yet. But I'm getting all the details about baseball. Not Miss Priss, of course.”

“Of course not.” Maggie stirred sugar into her tea. “She has no interest in sports, as you well know. She told me today that she wants to be a ballerina.”

Lynn smiled. When they had prayed for a girl, God gave them one who had no intentions of copying her brothers. She let them know it in no uncertain terms. With two brothers and two boy cousins, she went outside the family for a best friend. Good thing Beth lived right across Lower Lake Road. Since they lived out in the country, two miles from the almost town of Barnett and ten from Detroit Lakes, there were not a lot of other kids close by.